The Nightingales' Song
by nomdaguerreotype
Summary: What happened after the end of the second series? How does Tommy win Grace over again and just what has she been doing in New York? The family reacts.
1. Chapter 1

_ST: Do I Wanna Know? - Arctic Monkeys (obviously)_

"Also, I'm planning on getting married."

Tommy barely felt his tired, battered body. For a second, he let himself be overtaken by a sense of sheer, soaring joy. "Who to?" Michael was incredulous. "Someone I love, Michael. You'll meet her soon enough. But," he coughed, "I have some things to do now so…" Michael's stunned amusement was missed as he nodded to himself and strode out. Tommy exhaled and leaned over toward the desk. He picked up the phone and spoke to the operator. "Ritz Hotel. London, Piccadilly."

"Hello?" A man's voice with a distinctly American twang.

"I need to speak to Grace."

"Who is this?"

"My name's Thomas Shelby."

"What do you want with Grace, Mr Shelby? It's very late"

"Would you please tell her I'm calling, sir."

"I'm afraid she's not feeling well Mr Shelby."

Faintly Tommy hears a woman's voice soft in the background. A sweet sound. "You'll take it? All right."

"Mr Shelby?"

"Grace."

"Can I help you?"

"What?"

"Things were made clear to me today, Mr Shelby."

"Grace. I had a busy day."

"Yes, I saw the evening papers. No doubt it will be for the best. I hear you have influence with the board."

Tommy hadn't foreseen this.

"Grace, we should talk." The cigarette burned out. The filter caught and gave the room an acrid smell.

"Go ahead."

"In person, Grace. Can we meet?"

"I leave on the fourth for New York. We've had some good news, Mr Shelby, my husband and I. There's a baby on the way."

Tommy passed his hand across his eyes and toyed with the crusted blood by his eye. The reopened wound started to drip freely. Thick white blotting paper soaked up bright splatters.

"Grace, you've read the papers?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll know that Field Marshal Russell was killed."

"I do."

"Grace, there are some things best not said over the 'phone. I'm sorry I didn't make it back. It was not for want of trying. Can I see you, please?"

"Tommy." Her soft voice cracked.

"I'll pick you up at midday."

"OK."

He rung off.

And picked up the receiver again. "Ritz Hotel. London, Piccadilly."

"What was that?" Clive was unconcerned and for a moment Grace wondered what she was doing.

"Oh, the family lawyer. Remember the one I told you about? Mr Shelby? An aunt has died and there's an inheritance for them all to squabble over. Some details needed sorting out." She smiled.

"An inheritance?"

"Pennies. She lived in a cottage in Kinvarra, kept herself to herself. We've no need for her money, darling. Let them worry about it."

"Well if you're sure."

"Positive."

"We don't need anything worrying you gorgeous, not the state you're in."

Grace smiled a secret smile as she slipped back between the sheets for a sleepless night.

 _ST: Soul Meets Body - Death Cab for Cutie_

Sunlight streamed through the net curtains, casting mottled shadows. The first day of summer. Already his small room was unbearably hot. Tommy blinked in the bright light and inclined his head back to stare at the cracked ceiling. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. Reaching a practiced hand to the bedside table he took a Sweet Afton from the open packet. Lighting it, he drew deeply, enjoyed the sandpaper rasp of the day's first cigarette and let the exhale drift upward to join years' worth of yellow stains on the ceiling. It hung from the corner of his mouth as he swung around and planted his feet on rough boards. Stiffly, he walked to the mantlepiece and extracted a folded telegram from its home under the candlestick. Smoothing it out with gentle hands, he propped it up to savour the contents. Fluffy ash fell to the floor as he allowed himself a chuckle and started to prepare for the day.

He rinsed well at the washstand, appreciating the cold water. Drops fell rusty from his temple. He shaved closely in a cracked mirror. Resting another cigarette, he dressed with more than usual attention, taking the nicer pair of cufflinks, and selected a fat silk tie in cornflower blue for a slate-grey suit.

In the kitchen Arthur was reading the newspaper at the table as Finn looked on, bored. "Sabini's lost his licences. It's all over the papers." Arthur said with pride. Tommy poured himself a cup of lukewarm tea. "Where the fuck did you get to last night?"

"I had a busy day, brother. It was good work you did yesterday, Arthur. You and the boys."

"Yeah it's good to be out. Show them who's boss."

Arthur peered up and registered Tommy's appearance.

"Why the good suit, Tommy?"

"I'm heading to London. There are some things to do."

"Today, Tommy? What the fuck's in London? We just got back."

"Well, Arthur, I need to make sure that those licences end up in our hands. I need to talk to Mrs Carleton; I need to talk to Mr Solomons. I want to be sure things are in order." Tommy finished his tea. "You run the shop, it'll be busy today. Polly's back from London on the ten o'clock."

"All right, brother."

"Finn."

"I was good yesterday, Tommy, ask anyone."

"'Course you were. You're a Shelby, lad." Tommy laid a firm hand on his shoulder. "Look after Arthur today for me will you."

Finn smirked as the door banged shut behind his brother.

The drive south was easy. Roads were quiet and the cool, rushing air calmed his nerves. Tommy made good time to central London, bordering Regent's Park as he headed east. He pulled up in Holburn and completed a small errand before driving back to Mayfair. He strolled through the Burlington Arcade to Piccadilly, where he leaned, nonchalant, against a pillar that gave him a clear view down the long colonnade to the Ritz' door. He checked his watch; nearly eleven o'clock.

"I've a few gifts to buy before we leave, but that's all. We're practically ready! I might go over the road and find some silver for people." Grace filled the air with meaningless conversation.

Clive kissed her. "OK, love. I'm off."

"I'm sure you'll sort it all out."

"Yes, but there's still a lot to get through. The Pound's dropping fast against the Dollar and the value of those bonds is a problem for us. It will take all afternoon, might go into the evening."

"That's why I made late reservations at The Ivy - 9 o'clock," she said breezily.

"You think of everything, baby!" Clive winked jovially from the doorway.

 _ST: Bombast - The Fall_

A tall, dapper man in cream linen stepped from the hotel entrance. Tommy chucked his cigarette. Swinging himself around towards the street, he reached into his jacket and stepped unassumingly into the man's path. He bent over after the assured collision. "Excuse me, you dropped this." Tommy presented him with a pen. The man felt his pockets. "It's not mine, pal." The drawl nearly confirmed Tommy's suspicions. "Well, finders keepers, I s'pose." "Sure," said the man. "Good day." But he was talking to air as the deeply shaded arcade swallowed the dark suit. Tommy flipped the card over as he walked on, a light-fingered childhood still sometimes paid off: Clive Macmillan, J. P. Morgan & Co, 23 Wall Street. Now he knew.

Grace watched the door snap shut and listened intently to Clive's footsteps fading to the end of the corridor. She sighed relief. The drone of engines, clattering footsteps, horns, shouting infiltrated the room, breaking through the closed window from the street below. She crossed the suddenly huge yet stifling space and looked out over the bustle. A shaft of sunlight fell on her neck and she closed her eyes to its warmth, momentarily lulled. She cast her eye over the room she'd called home for several months. All the luggage stood in the corner and it was once again free of personality: impassive, muted, functional luxury. A flash caught her eye and she turned to the mirror. She had chosen her favourite dress. A pale peridot Vionnet that fell just below the knee with soft scarf detailing around a v-neck. It was hardly explicit but the silk draped revealingly around her lean, willowy body. She took a moment to make sure her hair was in place, and put a little extra powder on her nose. Smooth movements disguised her inner turmoil. There was the flash again. Stilling her breath, she looked her reflection in the eye. A quick, almost imperceptible nod. She strode to Clive's bedside table, pulled the rings from her finger and placed them on its glossy surface. She took a cigarette from an tooled-silver case and went to put them in her bag. Her H&R's trusty, cold nose snubbed her palm as she dropped them in, bringing back visions of fierce eyes and angry faces, dark streets and hard-won victory. She needed it then. She needed it still.

A crisp, gentle knock at the door startled her. She forced cheerfulness, "Forget your keys again, darling?"

"No, I didn't forget me keys."

Gathering composure, Grace opened the door. Tommy's deep blue eyes met hers and stripped her bare. He removed his cap and twisted the fabric viciously behind his back with hands that didn't know what to do. Neither noticed long seconds passing in silence. "Hello, Grace." He broke the spell.

"You're early! How did you find this room?"

"The manager, Steven, used to run a few pubs in Saltley. He's made something of himself in London. First at The Savoy, now here." Grace was frustrated and pleased by how self-evident that was. "You'd better come in."

"No. I have plans. Come with me." Tommy reached for her hand.

"What are you doing?"

"We need to talk, Grace."

Grace shook her head. "Words work as well here as anywhere. Tell me about May Carleton."

"Don't bring her into this."

"I didn't think I did," Grace's agitation shifted her dress across her shoulder revealing a pale amber strap, "you lied to me." Tommy's jaw dropped. Aghast, he snapped. "What do you want me to say, eh? That I've been seeing someone? What'd you think would happen? We are standing at the doorway of the fucking room you share with your fucking husband. Now, please, Grace. Fucking come."

Grace had fought herself to even ask, but she needed to know. May's entirely unexpected appearance at the Derby threw her. She had risked a lot laying all her cards on the table for Tommy, ensuring he knew she loved him as she thought he did her. And now, as his eyes bored into her soul she knew nothing would ever change. She held out her hand.

They stepped into the lift. Tommy nodded to the attendant who cranked the lever as they headed upwards. The cramped space was awkward. Grace stood facing the door, Tommy's hot breath on her neck. The firm stitching that edged his jacket rasped her back in an odd staccato. Her scent filled his nostrils - bright perfume, soap, hair - and she swayed with the clunking mechanism. He lit a cigarette and the smoke unfurled around them.

They stepped out several storeys higher on the fifth floor. Tommy led the way to the end of a long corridor, where he opened a door and held it for her. Grace got the sensation of being underwater as she stepped into a lounge, the first of a suite of rooms. Bright light bounced from pale furnishings and polished wood, caught itself and glowed in myriad vases. On every surface was a display of fragrant, white summer flowers. Gardenia, magnolia, jasmine, lily of the valley made the atmosphere heady, heavy, lush as a jungle. She took a deep breath of the gauzy air and nearly swooned.

Now at the open window, she looked out over the park below, towards the grey roofs of Belgravia. "Not bad, eh?" Tommy had moved up behind her. "Steven?" She asked, aqua eyes glinting amusement.

"Yes." Tommy was impassive and his movements self-contained, but she could see the the effort he was putting into the effect.

"It's an impressive view," she smiled. "Now, tell me about yesterday. What the hell happened to you?" Her eyes fell on his temple. "Take a seat," he gestured. Grace perched herself on the edge of a capacious armchair. Tommy offered her a cigarette from the casket on the table which he lit before taking one for himself. He took the chair opposite. "Well, you need to know, and I trust you, Grace." His words fell thick into the dense air. "See, our old friend Mr Campbell thought it would be convenient for the Field Marshal to be removed from the face of this earth. I was chosen for the task. My family were threatened to make sure I couldn't back out. All I could do was make sure it was done somewhere where I had a chance of getting away with it. That's why I chose the races."

"Tommy!"

"Mmmm. With the police guarding the King there was a chance. But that bastard, that bastard" he spat, "enlisted some of his UVF mates to do away with me. And they got me, Grace. I found meself miles away by an open grave waiting for the kiss of a Webley. It's good the red right hand can't trust itself. I was saved and two others shot. I got lucky."

"So did I." Tommy looked sharply at her, her eyes were steady.

"Grace, I've carried death on my shoulders for a long time. I've been ready for him to twist my neck and send me on, but yesterday, something changed. I had a moment where things were clear. He was gone and it was you there. I heard your song. I saw your face."

 _ST: For a Nightingale - Fionn Regan_

"I want to do this properly." Tommy knelt, "Grace, I need you. There's a child on the way. I know there are obstacles, but would you do me the honour, the greatest honour, of becoming mine? Will you marry me? I think there is a future here." She reached out and traced her fingers to the back of his velvet head, pulling him closer as she leaned in and kissed him, yes. Tommy grinned and withdrew a ring from his inner pocket. "It's beautiful." "Hatton Garden this morning," he explained, a little smug. As ever, he was presumptuous but right. Grace extended her finger. Three large diamonds sat along a platinum band that fitted her perfectly. Unconsciously she held her arm out and admired how well it looked. Tommy drank in her appreciation and kissed her tenderly. She returned the kiss with force before breaking from him. "I love you, Tommy Shelby."

"Shall I open that Champagne now then?" He grinned.

"What Champagne?"

"There's some in the cupboard." Tommy walked across the room and brought a silver ice bucket from the marble-topped sideboard, it glimmered with condensation.

"It'll keep." She went to where he stood, took the bucket from his hands and put it on the carpet, where a dark patch started to bloom. His taste had sent a jolt through her body. She needed him to envelope her, suffocate her in his embrace. Every day part of her remembered him. The flesh at the small of her back. her cheek, her forearm. Years' longing. She pressed her lips to his tenderly, insistently, with so much desire he staggered. Tommy's need for her had haunted him. Sometimes when the moon was full, he'd watch it from the banks of the cut all night. It's distance brought her closer and the night's sharp cold dulled the pain. Now her warm soft mouth was opening to him, promising everything, asking for him. His hands found their way to her neck, over her shoulders, grazed her breasts as they moved around her waist to her back. She began to undo his buttons, threw his waistcoat to the floor and pulled off his tie. Her dress bunched in his fists as he lifted it over her head in a single movement and caressed the cool silk underneath, dragging her closer as she pushed his shirt from his shoulders. Her fingers traced calico skin down his spine, skidded at a pool of sweat at its base to ease off his undershorts. Grace's slip glided from her body and she wrapped herself around him as he carried her to the bedroom. They dissolved into each other, gasping breaths between kisses. Her sensitive fingers instinctively sought his wounds, his scars; he was ecstatic, caught in bliss between his dreams and reality, drowning in her. She clasped her ankles behind his back as if to enclose him whole, and swallowed his moan as he pushed deeper into her. Her breathing became ragged, he felt her stiffen and gave in to his pleasure as she quaked beneath him. The most beautiful thing he'd ever known. She clung to his shoulders, quivering. He smudged gentle kisses on her neck, her cheeks as the climax subsided. Weightless, he felt for a second that he was looking down at them; two people, quietly rapturous, entwined on a huge white bed in the sunshine. She felt his compact, solid body pressing her into the now damp sheet and felt finally earthbound, tethered to hard rock.

She forced heavy eyelids to open. He was watching her intently. "Tommy."

"Yes, Grace."

"I could never truly leave you. Believe that."

"I do," he ran a rough thumb along her satin cheek. She leaned into his hand and pressed it against her skin.

"But there's something you should know."

"Something I should know?" He chewed over the words.

"I can't stay." His soft eyes drew the words out of her in a flurry. "I'm working. I still have to get back to New York. I'm sorry, Tommy."


	2. Chapter 2

Tommy pulled away and felt his future tilt. He lit a cigarette and thudded his skull against the brass bars of the bedhead, closed his eyes, took a long draw. Ash dropped on impeccable sheets. Grace propped herself on her side, drew linens around her body. She softly placed her hand on his near shoulder. He stubbed out viciously into a cut glass ashtray, inclined his head towards her hand and rubbed it against her fingers, brushing his lips against their tips. "Tell me."

Her fingers rippled under the kiss. "OK. Here goes then: I was set up for another mission once the guns were recovered; a posting in New York. I had meetings with agents in London the week I left Small Heath." She caught his eye. "They set me up with a new identity, papers. Eamon de Valera has been raising funds for the Dáil. The idea was for me to help prevent the money getting to Ireland. Things have become so dangerous there… I need to do what I can to keep my family safe."

Tommy's lambent eyes widened as she came fully into focus. Bold to-a-fault; fighting her past. He kissed her forehead and pulled her close. She nestled her head on his collarbone, continuing. "So, the plan to return is in place. Things are moving over there and I need to be in New York," she reached for his hand, "but we have a few days now and I promise, Tommy, I will finish the business and come back to you."

"Or perhaps," she looked him square in the eye, "you could join me this time."

…

A broad, private terrace led from the suite. Huddled in the roofline it was furnished moderately with a white-painted pierced cast iron table, chairs, a few sun lounges. From the door the eye slipped down a short length of tiles and across Green Park's riffling summer treetops to the grey roofs of west London etching the horizon. Morning's clarity had given in to the miasma of the metropolis; the sky glowed white as the city toiled and sweated on the streets. Grace led the way out to the breezy eyrie, Tommy following with Champagne now neck-deep in melted ice. He plonked the bucket distractedly on the table and cool water sloshed out, splashed their bare feet. "I was busy watching my future wife, sorry."

"Oh? Who's that then?" She laughed.

"Aaaah. She's very beautiful."

She skipped the two paces across to him and met smiling lips with her own. "You're not so bad." Her hand lingered on his jaw. "Shall we toast?"

"I think so." He pulled the bottle out. The main label had given up its hold and was disintegrating sludgily, but the small oval on the shoulders had only briefly been submerged, remaining pompously to inform the prospective imbiber that the esteemed appointment of King George V was responsible for the contents. "He spent hardly any time there and yet, they make the fucking wine for 'im." Tommy said it almost under his breath, almost before thought. Bitterness and regret shaded his face. Grace moved behind him and tied her arms around his waist, pressed a cheek into his neck. Tommy closed his eyes to her gentle pressure and returned to the moment with a sigh and small smile. "Right!" He ripped the foil off, untwisted the cage and pressed the cork out with his thumb by quarter turns. It launched and flew fifty feet over the leafy canopy before dropping from view. Grace held out glasses to catch the spume."Would you do the honours?"

"Of course! Here's to me, and here's to you, and here's to love and laughter. I'll be true as long as you and not one moment after." She smiled cheekily. "I think we'll be ok." Beaded bubbles winked* at broad rims as they clinked their glasses in delight and swallowed the sparkling ambrosia. "Of course, Tommy, the other thing, what it all means is…" He put it together. "You're not married, are you?"

"Grace Cassidy will soon never have existed, who was she to wed?"

"I'll drink to that." Golden wine flowed until there was no more.

3 o'clock on a hot, hazy afternoon. The kind of time a day fractures with worn tempers and tasks incomplete. Back inside. Tommy put layer upon layer back on and sweltered uncomfortably. Grace did her best to push wrinkles out of the dress with damp hands. "I'll need to put something else on, this is not fit to be seen. I'm going to fetch a case up." She headed for the door.

"Grace, I have to see a man in Camden Town. There's business that can't wait any longer… I shouldn't be more than an hour."

"Well, I have no better place to be."

"It's not safe, Grace."

"Nor am I." She opened her purse.

"And here I was thinking you'd lost your sense of humour. How wrong can a man be?" Tommy grinned before flattening. "It's too dangerous. You're not coming.""What about you?" Demanded Grace. "Where's your cover?"

"I know what I'm doing."

"Oh, I don't?"

"That's not what I meant."

"It certainly sounds like it."

"You can come in the car, but no further." It was a concession. Grace let her indignation subside as his mask briefly slipped to show real fear. "OK. Let me change first."

…

 _ST: Shoot the Runner - Kasabian_

"Mr Shelby's here."

"Right Ollie, ta. Fuck off."

Alfie Solomons checked his heavy-chained watch and clasped long fingers over his stomach. He leaned back and surveyed his men through the glass of his central office, veins straining against skin as they rolled heavy butts along the gritty concourse in the gloaming. Tommy's self-contained silhouette made its way from the bright entrance to his doorway.

"Mr Solomons."

"Tommy Shelby. What a fucking delight to see you two days together! Whiskey?" He reached to the drawer.

"Thank you, no."

"I heard you were taking a little holiday courtesy of His Majesty."

"What gave you that idea?"

"My men in the Wop's notion of a good-time club say you're finished. After your paltry attempt to set the tracks down here ablaze you were carted off in a van…"

"Alfie!" Ollie called from the door. He dragged a reluctant Grace behind as he descended on the office.

"What have you got there?"

"She was outside Alfie. What woman like this hangs around our bakery?"

"I was going for a walk. What's so unusual about that?" She hovered her eyes over the barrels, avoiding Tommy's gaze.

"Well, me yellow-haired lovely this is Camden Town and women like you aren't two a penny in my area if you get my drift. Love, this is a dead end." Alfie caught on to an atmosphere. "Ah! You're this little Diddicoi's, aren'tcha? Thought your girl'd be on a leash Tommy."

Tommy let the insults wash over and recovered. "Mr Solomons, this is Grace, my secretary."

"'Course she is. Body like that. Now what's this canary doing in my bakery? That's what I want to know. She should be in a cage. Like what I thought you were."

Tommy shook his head. "Sabini is too reliant on the police, misinformation gets around when your system is bad."

"I say you are too fucking smug Tommy Shelby. Oi! Ollie!"

"Yes Alfie?"

"You take Tommy's little birdie into that corner and you tickle her under the wing with this here gun." He threw his Webley, grip-first, across the desk.

"That's not the attitude to take when I am here to do you a favour, Mr Solomons."

"Don't make me laugh. You've got nothing to offer that isn't up for the taking. So you burned a few licences, that just means they're not Sabini's for while. He's got a few scared bookmakers and a lot of violent men making his point across the city. Smithfield, yeah, Smithfield's seen more blood today than in fifty fucking years. It's a fucking war you've started Tommy and my people are suffering so what's one more soul on the old conscience? Take the fucking gun Ollie."

"I wouldn't Ollie." Grace pressed the muzzle of her revolver through her bag, against his left side.

"Fuck Alfie she's got a gun!"

"You useless boy. Did you not fucking check?"

"Fuck, Alfie." Ollie's voice lifted a pitch.

"One more soul, Mr Solomons?" Tommy reclined, arms behind his head.

Alfie leaned forward and steepled his hands, pushed his thumbs against his lips for a second's contemplation. Tommy took the moment.

"It was only yesterday that I provided you with the means for increasing the income of your distillery. That arrangement will, of course, remain in place. By my estimation that raises your total income at least ten percent. The protections are your business, I have no current interest in local scuffles. But today, making an alliance with me at the tracks will help your cause against the Italians as well as guaranteeing substantial extra capital into the future. The Jews aren't strong enough to do this alone. If you want your bookmakers at the '23 Derby, you need me, Mr Solomons."

"And you need me, Shelby."

"I can't deny that. But, divided, we have no chance, and where did your deal with Sabini get you? Back to where you started." Tommy's disdain wrote itself on his face.

"Talk numbers."

"You can have twenty-five percent of the newly available licences. Seventy-five will go to the Peaky Blinders for obtaining them; I have contacts in government. I shall also send down fifty extra men to assist you with protecting your turf, as a gesture of good will."

"Don't be absurd Tommy. Twenty-five?"

"It's a fair offer."

Alfie grasped his revolver casually with his left hand and with a flick took aim at Grace's head. "I reckon I could make it fairer."

"You shoot, and everything is up in smoke. The distillery trade; the licences; your own Camden Town will be up for grabs." Tommy worried for his composure.

"I'd lay a thousand-to-one you're less ready to lose this yellow girl than I am to do a bit more work. My work is what I live for. What do you live for, Tommy Shelby?" Alfie looked penetratingly at him, stroking his beard.

"Thirty-five."

"Sixty." In the stifling silence the sound of Alfie cocking his weapon ratcheted the tension to near breaking point. Tommy shifted in his seat.

"I'll move to forty."

"Look, I'll take my hopes down to fifty, right? We go equal. Just to show you what a good friend I am and my appreciation for your excellent paperwork."

"Forty-five. I can't go higher. Your lad over there's taken on a green cast, by the way." The look Alfie gave Ollie told him his future was going to be rough even if he made it through the next few minutes.

"Forty-five."

Each spat into his palm and moved to shake on the deal. Their hands were halfway to meeting when a bullet skimmed the table, knocking Alfie's revolver from his grip harmlessly to the floor. He chafed instinctively, reached into his drawer, withdrew the whiskey, soaked a rag and wrapped his wound. "Fuck!."

"Tommy don't concede that much."

"Grace. What are you doing?"

"I'm changing the stakes. Now, there's a gun out of the equation. I know you weren't intending to give away forty-five percent. Thirty-five would be it at most. It's all he's worth to the arrangement."

"Well, Mr Solomons. You heard the lady. Thirty-five. Ollie, what do you say?" To Tommy's amusement, Alfie's sidekick was now clutching a ledge to stay upright.

"Fuck. Thirty-five."

They shook on it. Grace pulled the gun from Ollie's spine and he collapsed to the floor as they made their way rapidly out.

"I'm sorry, Tommy. I was curious. And I didn't want anything to happen to you."

"Fuck Grace. Fuck! You know what could have happened in there?"

"Yes, but it didn't. The chances were slender. I'm fine. You're fine. The deal was good, I think."

Amazement, fear, love and adrenaline commingled in a breathless, grounding kiss.

…

 _ST: Lady of the Flowers - Placebo_

Clive finished at the Bank of England earlier than expected and in no real rush took in the balmy evening with a stroll along the Thames, working his way up through St James' Park to the hotel. A flower girl selling lively bunches of zinnias caught his eye, he gave her a whole shilling and didn't wait for change. Buoyant, he stepped to their door, pulled out the key and let himself into a silent room. Tiny motes of dust flared in the pink light of dusk, deepening the shadows. He filled a glass with water and arranged the flowers in it, placing them by the dressing table mirror. Then he noticed the folded piece of paper at his bedside. A sensation he couldn't place came over him as he opened the note. 'Clive, Meet me in the bar. Grace.'

The Ritz bar was typically a muted place, where nights were begun and ended rather than lived. Deep emerald upholstery on walnut furniture in front of a brass-and-marble bar. Lighting intended for ambience more than illumination. Animal bronzes. Grace took a table in the far corner and sipped whiskey that flared around her mouth before dying in her throat comfortingly. She smoked distractedly. Tommy settled into his vantage point on a sofa in the large lobby, masking his presence with a copy of The Evening News. Distracted by anticipation, he nonetheless appreciated with a connoisseur's taste the IRA angle on Russell's assassination, and noted a short piece on the eruption of further gang fighting down Farringdon Road.

Clive emerged from the lift just as a smallish, handsome man with wavy, wheaten hair was propelled into the lobby through the main entrance on the force of a hundred screams. A taller, heavy-set man and several police trailed in his wake. Other uniformed men barricaded the door. Chaplin looked at the new quiet about him and sagged in relief. "Shee, when they're are out to get you, the fans are out to get you!" Wag nodded. "A drink, Mr Chaplin?"

"Well, that's an idea! My throat's like the Sahara since the brandy at lunch. Get me two martinis and Champagne for the house!" He gestured wildly around the bar like a benevolent alcoholic dictator. Wag surveyed the room for potential land mines and, finding none, chose his boss a large table away from the window. He caught Grace's eye as he pulled out the chair for Chaplin, and nodded toward her, she smiled a response. Clive had made it to the entrance, barring Tommy from her line of vision. Self-consciously glad, she motioned him over.

 _ST: Tape Song - The Kills_

"What's this, Grace? Why are we meeting here? I had ideas for us upstairs." Clive slid on to the banquette beside her and reached for her waist. She shied away.

"I have to tell you something."

"What's that, peaches?"

"Why don't you get yourself a drink?"

A bottle of champagne and two glasses materialised. "Courtesy of Mr Charles Chaplin, sir, madam."

"Well, that was quick!" Clive smiled surprise. "We're in esteemed company this evening."

"Yes. We are." Grace tried to sober the mood and pulled at the fingers of her gloves unconsciously before tugging them back on. The new ring felt strange through the fabric. "Clive, I have to talk to you."

A shadow fell across the table. "Mr Chaplin wonders if you would care to join him?" Wag delivered the message.

"Thank you. Please tell Mr Chaplin we're indisposed."

"Oh, come on, baby! When do you get to meet a genuine film star?" Clive was up and crossing the room before she knew what was happening.

"Grace, isn't it?"

"That's right, Mr Chaplin."

"Where's your man?"

"Well…" Grace's eyes flickered towards the lobby. "This is my husband, Clive. Clive Macmillan."

"Ah!" Chaplin winked. An exaggerated, louche movement. "Please, sit with us."

"Thank you." Grace reluctantly slid into the chair beside his. Clive pulled up a handy straightback next to her. "Thank you, Mr Chaplin! This is the good stuff." He happily opened his throat for the bubbles and topped himself up merrily. The day felt as though it couldn't get better.

"You've been well? It's fine to see you again." Chaplin addressed Grace.

"Thank you, yes, Mr Chaplin."

"Charles, please. We know each other well enough. I don't hold much with these old fashioned customs Mr This, Mrs That, Miss The-other…"

"Hang on a second. You've met already?" Clive tried to piece together what was happening.

"Indeed we have, yes. What was it?" Chaplin looked at Grace. "Six, seven weeks ago?"

"That's right. I had a lovely evening, Charles."

"Grace," Clive turned to her, "what is going on? You met Charlie Chaplin, the Charlie Chaplin, and you didn't tell me? I thought we had no secrets, baby."

"That's why we're here." She faced him. "You need to know the truth. Which is… I love someone else. The baby's his. That night… I don't want you to be upset. I'm sorry, Clive. I didn't want you to find out like this… I never intended you to be hurt." The words tumbled out.

Clive sat back, eyes gleaming in shock, mouth ajar. He collected Chaplin's second martini and downed it. "Grace, I love you. Why would you do this? We're happy."

"We were…" She shook her head and looked plaintively at his contorted expression. "There are things you don't know about me."

"More things? What the hell more don't I know?" He flung his arm into the air. "Hey! Waiter! Drinks."

"Well… Before I came to New York, I lived a while in England. I met someone then. I didn't think there was a chance for us. But, well, it seems there is. I have to take it."

"Does he love you?"

"Yes."

"He's told you that?"

"Well…"

"He sounds like a right sonofabitch." Clive sculled the next drink like water. He chewed briefly on the juicy olive before the pip cracked in shards and gouged his inner cheek. He took a clear yellow handkerchief from his pocket and spat with vitriol into it. Dull green and bright red. "What's he do with his life? Eh? Is he rich? Is he going to look after you right?" He reached for her hand and pressed it to his good cheek. "Don't do this to us, baby." Grace flinched and pulled it away. She folded her arms around her body and wedged her hands against his reach.

"We're finished, Clive. I'm sorry, and I mean that, I do. There's someone out there who deserves you far more than me. Take the boat back and forget about us. I'm not worth it." She retrieved the rings from her bag and dropped them with a jingle into his free breast pocket.

"Whore!" He slammed his third empty glass on the table. The stem fractured and gashed his palm, trailing vermillion over his pale suit. Wag moved behind and laid a warning hand on his shoulder. "Get off me!" He knocked his chair over as he stood, violently shrugging the hand off. "I'm leaving. Jesus! I'm leaving." He aimed a vicious kick at the prone chair which cracked and splintered under his heel. The commotion attracted the attention of some of the 'bluebottles' in the lobby who buzzed in and compelled him firmly away by the elbows. "This isn't the last you'll hear of this! We're goddamn married!" The threat fell dull on plush decor, and he was gone.

Grace took a moment to collect herself then walked through to the lobby and peered over the newspaper to Tommy, barely containing his mirth. "Done." She pushed the paper down. "You weren't needed."

"No. Glad I was 'ere though. Wouldn't want to miss that." He neatly folded the broadsheet and discarded it on the table beside. Another drag from the resting cigarette finished it and he squashed the tip black.

"I'm glad you enjoyed the performance. Shall we go through?"

"Let's go." He held out his arm as he stood.

"One moment…" She pulled her gloves off, deposited them in her bag, "I don't think these are needed right now." Took his elbow with her left hand. The icy diamonds glinted fire as she moved to return to the bar. "Grace," softly his hand fell on her waist. Their eyes met. The world stopped. Her hand found its way between collar and skin. "I know, Tommy." She leaned forward for a surreptitious kiss and found herself forgetting the fifty-or-so people now watching as it deepened inappropriately. Cheers and clapping from Chaplin's table across the way broke the charm. They smiled sheepishly and, arm-in-arm, made their way over.

"Shelby. Good to see you again!"

"Mr Chaplin." Tommy smiled and nodded towards his friend. "Wag."

"Tommy." Wag gave a curt nod.

"Well, you two seem happy!" Chaplin half-smiled. "Sure that kid exists? Sure it's yours?" He addressed Tommy with a bright, insinuating face and hard eyes.

Tommy raised an eyebrow and cocked his head in Chaplin's direction. "I'm sure."

"I've had some problems myself. These women, they chew you up and spit you out like old gum."

"I appreciate your concern, Mr Chaplin, but I assure you that it is unwarranted."

"It's been quite a journey for us, Charles." Grace interjected.

"Six or seven weeks, hey? Well, I've spent so long bitter sometimes I can't see happy. I'm too jaded for love these days." Chaplin became almost businesslike. Tommy caught Grace's eye then quickly angled his view toward the tabletop. "Pull up a chair, please. And let's get some more drinks happening Wag." Wag motioned to the bar and more Champagne arrived in moments. Chaplin raised his glass, encouraging others to do the same. "To this pretty pair. To their pretty baby. I wish you all the happiness in the world kids." The table echoed 'happiness' and drank, then settled back into the rhythms of excitable conversation. Tommy and Grace stayed a while as London society flocked, coming, going, smoking, drinking, talking about nothing.

"Come on, let's go home."

"Home?"

"Birmingham."

"Tonight?"

"There's a family meeting in the morning. I want you to be there. Let them know things have changed." He caught her hand and touched the ring with his thumb, so earnest Grace couldn't find any irritation despite heavy misgivings. "Well, OK. I suppose it does need to be done." They stood to make farewells.

"Charles, I have to thank you for two magical evenings now."

"As big as my head is Grace, I don't think the magic was me. You two have been a gas, though. Best of luck! Look me up if you find yourself in LA."

"I'll do that. Thank you." She found herself kissed peremptorily on each cheek and Chaplin sank back into the increasingly raucous party.

Tommy made his way to the isolated, observant Wag McDonald.

"You headed back?"

"Yes."

"Could you deliver this to my mother? It's just something to keep the family going." Wag produced a thick envelope, clearly containing cash.***

"I'll do that. Thank you for tonight." Tommy gripped his shoulder and shook his hand. "Grace?" She took his arm and they departed the harsh, bright show.

…

 _ST: Aviation - The Last Shadow Puppets_

Starry sky vented the day's warmth. The world was crystalline around them as Grace huddled under a rough woollen blanket, self-contained on the passenger side. She looked to the cool black ahead, alert, unflinching. "Come here." He opened his arm along the back of the bench seat. She skimmed across and felt his hand curl softly around her shoulder as they drove into the night.

Gravel crunched under the slowing tyres. "I wanted to show you this."

"Where are we?"

"Frankley Beeches they call it. I come by sometimes to think. See my city." He kissed the crown of her head as she reclined into his arms. "Our city." She smiled and drew in the view as a match flared at his thumbnail and the the cigarette glowed into cupped hands. Stars shimmered in the semi-circular lake a short distance ahead, giving way to the low, flashing glow of Birmingham and then the heavens themselves. She took the proffered smoke and tugged at its furnace. She passed it back. "Thank you." Grace let her head fall and turned towards the crevice of his neck, closed her eyes, inhaled, nudged. He rested his cheek on her hair and squeezed her close. They hung suspended, caught between water and aether, found their place together in the cosmos.

Small Heath. 2am. Thumping, whirring, clanging. Murky streets echoing the muffled boom of clandestine industry. Tommy cut the engine and the noises encroached the garage's gloom. "Come on." He stepped down and helped her out as she shuffled across the seat to the driver's door. Securing the blanket with an arm around her shoulders he led the way into the empty streets. Grace could barely contain her trepidation as Tommy fumbled with keys to open the door at Watery Lane. The lock turned with a clunk that was probably not as loud as it sounded, and the door swung open. They crept through the perilously overfurnished room and up the stairs, she followed closely to avoid boards that creaked. "Er, make yourself at 'ome." He told her, depositing her suitcase just inside his bedroom door. Grace looked around with interest as he lit the lamp. Full ashtrays. Heavy ledgers on a desk. A surprising crucifix hanging a few feet from a nondescript landscape against a busily-papered wall. A near-finished glass of whiskey by a nearly-empty bottle by the bed, itself a small cast iron affair under a thin patchwork coverlet. She sat herself at the desk by the window. The net curtain to keep eyes at bay took her back to chill bedsit nights, a liminal time where things were clouded as they were lucent.

 _She woke and saw him sleeping with a tiny, rare smile. Her hand was still in his. Soft, regular breaths swelled above a steady heartbeat. Fighting cramp, she prised her fingers from his grasp and slid from the sheets. She put the kettle on and dressed to it's hissing, spluttering tune. Gently settling on the edge of the bed, she ran her fingers through his hair in silent apology. He blinked himself awake and with a broad boyish grin sat up, kissed her. Her hand rested on his arm as their foreheads hung together. "Morning." He toyed with her hair. "Good morning. Look's like the trouble's died down now."_

 _"That's good."_

 _"Yes." She rubbed his thigh through the sheet."Tea?"_

 _"Yes." He remembered manners. "Please."_

 _She warmed the pot and made a strong brew of cheap black tea as he dressed, watching her move around her place. They sipped the scalding liquid in silence. "I should go." He put down his cup._

 _She nodded. "I'll see you later, then."_

 _"I'll be by The Garrison this afternoon."_

 _She stood to see him out and waited by the door as he pulled on his coat and aligned his cap, stooping to her low mirror._

 _"Take care, Tommy. I…" The sentence hung unfinished as he kissed her goodbye, fresh, and fragile. She saw him down the stairs and crossed the room to watch his dark, flowing shadow retreat along the street. She sat on the bed and smoked, judging her reflection in the corner. Willing her skin to forget him._

 _ST: Mexico - The Staves_

The sharp chink of metal on china brought her back. Cufflinks tossed in a dish. She emerged from her reverie to Tommy hanging his suit with care. The holster was slung inside the wardrobe door as he removed the gun, broke it and settled it in a wooden casket under the bed, not visible from the door but within easy reach. Her eyes travelled to the piece of paper displayed that morning. The telegram sent months ago. Her number. She smiled to herself.

Tommy twitched the bedcovers straight and arranged pillows in a bank at the head of the bed. He'd never felt the need to present his room and everything was inadequate. Except her. Sitting on his hard, spindle-back chair, hair bright in the light of the street lamp. She was peeling off pale stockings and rubbing red welts left by the clasps on her thighs. He watched as she stood and tugged off her dress and slip in one, yawning. She draped them over the chair and looked up. "It's, er, not what you're used to." "No," came the reply, "it's perfect." His smile matched hers as he held out his hand and drew her gently into the room. For seconds, for an age, they swayed to a silent melody; skin, softness, sinew; intoxicated by love flowing hot and sharp as whiskey.

She fell to the bed, stretched her arms above her head, fastening her fingers around the cold iron. He knelt between her legs and traced his lips up her lean torso until they found her mouth, ran his hands from taut wrists along her sides, lifted the small of her back and pressed into her. She gasped as the surge flowed through her body and rolled her hips into him. Her fingers raked trails of fire across his back and she clutched at his shoulders to brace against deep, intense strokes. He slowed, pushed himself up to take in her flushed face, gleaming eyes and open mouth that rose to meet his as a caress drew him down again. Their gaze locked and the orgasm poured through her body, leaving nothing of her self behind. He felt her wave crashing around him, heard her call his name and melted with a low moan. Dropped his head into her neck with a sob. Her gentle hand cradling his skull, an arm around his back, lips pressed below his ear and a soft cheek under his hand were tortured echoes met with a future lullaby. Time burned away as flawed souls found their place in the present. Godless peace and soft sleep descended on the tiny room saturated with the smell of sex and stale cigarettes.

…

The door rattled. "Hurry the fuck up, Tommy!" Arthur let himself in. "We're all waiting. Whoa!" Grace blinked blearily as Tommy propped himself up behind her. "Hello Grace."

"Hello, Arthur."

"You back to work in my pub?" He winked.

"Not this time Arthur."

"Oh. My loss, eh?"

"Arthur we'll be down in a minute. Let them know I'm on me way. Do not breathe a word of this, brother."

"All right, Sergeant Major." Arthur sniggered as he traipsed downstairs.

The family arrayed themselves around the shop table. John, arms folded, glowered at Esme. Polly calmly sipped tea and leafed through ledgers. Ada, Karl on lap, had travelled from London the evening before to check on her brother. Tommy called to let her know to burn Ransom Miller's letter, but something in his manner told her she should open it first. The contents were horrifying, and Finn's hyperactive account of yet another bout barely reached her. "Tommy says he'll be down in a minute." Arthur passed on the message. "About bloody time," muttered John. Polly looked keenly at Arthur. "Is there anything you want to tell us?" Arthur couldn't contain his amusement. "No." "Arthur?" Polly's tone sharpened to a fine point. "Well he's got some news for us, I'll tell yer that, but it's not my place to go any further." Michael, there at Tommy's extraordinary request, exchanged a look with his mother. She turned a fierce gaze to the stairs, lips pursed.

*Sorry Keats, but your poem is fitting.

**Truly something very like this happened in 1921. Chaplin was hounded into the Ritz with a large protective force of police, how could I resist a little time-shift?

***The real Wag was born in Lambeth, but let's go with canon.


	3. Chapter 3

_ST: I'll be Your Mirror - Velvet Underground_

Brume lingered in Small Heath's terraced canyons filtering sunshine bright and pale. Arthur's steps faded. Tommy rolled to his back and took in the pictures, the yellow ceiling, the dress hanging limp on his chair and marvelled at the sense of peace. Thousands of nights his restless eyes traced and re-traced the patterns on the walls thrown into relief by the lamp outside, searching for patchy sleep. He'd missed her. Waking he'd remember the dreams and fight a smile away. This morning, as he felt her turn and curve into him, he kept it. Bony ankles locked fondly. Clammy skin was sweet. Lips drifted over his shoulder and neck, a cool breeze to turn and meet. "Good morning."

"Good morning." Grace settled into gentle eyes. "Tommy…"

"Mmmm?"

"There's not been a night I didn't dream of this."

"I'm glad. See, there wasn't a morning I didn't think it." He brushed a shining hair from her cheek with the back of his palm. He cocked his head and twinkled his eyes at her, suddenly amused. "You're going to be a Shelby."

"I am." She laughed, kissed him. "Tommy we should go down. They hate me enough as it is without being kept waiting."

"They don't hate you."

"Yes. They do. What's more they've reason to."

"Well, I love you, and soon, I promise, they will accept you."

Grace's eyes widened. Tommy grinned. "Been wanting to say that for years."

"Oh? And what's stopped you?"

"Timing. Had to be right."

"They want my head on a pike down there! That's good timing?"

"No. Morning." He spoke quietly and slowly, tracing her features with his fingertips. "Waking up here, with you, is right. I never wanted to say it to convince you to do anything. But this…" Grace watched his face intently. "See, I spend my life questioning things. I've asked meself a lot about you, and I've asked the same questions of me. But I can't ask fucking anything of this. I can't fucking stop it either, and for the trouble you've caused I don't want to. I love you, Grace."

She swallowed and absorbed the intensity, the near-challenge. "I love you."

* * *

 _ST: Step Right Up - Tom Waits_

A navy-silk heeled shoe appeared through the banister following grey-clad legs. Arthur cocked an eyebrow at Finn.

John pressed his tongue to his cheek. "Oh what time d'you call this? Glad you could make it, Tommy!" He tugged at a cigar, so pleased to make a joke at Tommy's expense he missed the moment Grace's face appeared and the simmering room boiled over.

"Thomas, have you lost your fucking mind?!" Polly could hardly restrain herself "Oh, sweet Mother of Jesus, give me strength!" She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as Tommy guided Grace around the table and they turned to face the gathering, board behind them. Grace held her hands so tightly behind her back the new ring bruised her palm.

Michael silently observed. He looked the woman over; she was remarkably attractive, at least that part of the puzzle was solved; who wouldn't want that to themselves all the time? The rest, the animosity and the off-kilter sense of happiness, he waited to understand.

Tommy addressed the gathering: "Now. You will be aware this meeting was chalked for yesterday. I couldn't make it. I had some things to do." He glanced at Grace and resumed. "Unusually, today, we'll not have business first. Michael, you're here for this announcement then you go to the office." Michael nodded. "Most of you remember Grace from a few years back…"

"Yeah. We remember." John sneered. "You here to do another number on us?"

"John. Everybody," Tommy made a sweeping gesture of the room, grasped Grace's hand, "it's my honour to tell you today that Grace has accepted my proposal of marriage." He smiled. "You are looking at the next member of the Shelby family." They stood beside each other proud and awkward, Grace smiled hesitantly.

Polly's left hand went to her forehead as she fidgeted with the Black Madonna at her neck, shortly she found Karl in her arms as Ada stood. "Congratulations, Tommy." She gave him a hug. "Grace." She looked coolly at her next sister-in-law. "Ada." Grace returned her look with sympathy. "I heard. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, us Shelbys aren't the best judges of character."

"Ada." Tommy drew out the last syllable in warning.

"It's OK Tommy. I'll head back to London now."

"Ada, drinks tonight at The Garrison. I want you there."

"How can I celebrate? You're marrying the woman who put my Freddie in gaol." Her voice was plaintive.

"Freddie Thorne? He was headed there anyway, Ada. It was just a matter of time. We got him out didn't we?" Tommy fixed her with his gaze. "And for you to spend years in that hole-of-a-place with him gone all hours for his fucking cause."

"Sometimes you make sacrifices for what's right, Tommy. Stand up for those who have less."

"He did a job on you all right."

"Ada, stay. We'll talk at home." Polly's eerie calmness defused things.

"One more night, Polly," said Ada with a sigh of practised resignation. "It's better for Karl to travel tomorrow anyway with the weather."

John looked at Esme with barely-hidden distaste, then turned to Tommy."So is this your way of asking us if your fucking bride is acceptable? If marriage is what you want there's lots of pretty women around these parts since the war, and they're all gagging for it."

"John, you have a problem with your situation?" Tommy was impassive.

"Just that I had no say in it: I'm a man not a machine. My life is what you've fucking made of it, Tommy, not me." His face twisted in frustration.

"If you're unhappy about things John, you should go. Door's over there." He pointed. "It's a lovely day." Tommy raised a brow in challenge.

John could see Lizzie's sad eyes imploring him to get out. He stood. Liberated by defiance he walked, not bothering to slam the door as Esme's dark eyes roved after him.

"Anyone else have anything to say?" Tommy challenged the room.

"Well. I think if our Tommy's found someone who makes him happy, who are we to judge?" Arthur, sanguine, sat back, glass of whisky in hand. "We've had our issues with Grace, but none of us more than 'im. If he can put that behind to become a married man I want to congratulate him." Arthur gestured his glass towards them. "… and you Grace." She nodded at him with gratitude.

"Whoo-hoop!" Finn had been waiting for a moment and applauded vigorously, stamping time with his boot. Esme joined reluctantly and Arthur put his glass down to slap the table alongside; Ada clapped the rhythm with monotonal indifference. Polly pressed her hands together with a dull thud and kept them together in a gesture of prayer. A muted cacophony.

"Yes. Congratulations." Michael stood. "I hope you're both very happy." He shook Tommy by the hand and clasped Grace's as he nodded to her.

"Michael." Tommy acknowledged the gesture.

"I'll be off, then. See you tonight, all." He departed with contained efficiency.

…

Tommy shifted gear as the room settled uncomfortably. "To business. You all did good work at the Derby." He nodded to Polly, Arthur, Finn. "Sabini's bookmakers have lost their licenses and we will proceed to ensure they come to our hands. I met with Mr Solomons yesterday …"

"Thomas this will not be discussed in front of that woman." Polly stood, palms flat on the table as she gripped the underside with her thumbs to steady herself.

"I met with Mr Solomons yesterday and…"

"She leaves fucking now!" Polly banged her fist. China and glass rattled.

Tommy put his hand up to Polly's anger. "It's fine."

"She's rotten to the core. Mark my words: she'll ruin this family. Out. Now!"

"Pol, sit down."

"Either she goes, or I do. I'll not be party to this."

"She already knows, Pol."

"Thomas is there anything you won't say once your dick's had its way?"

"She came with me." He nodded and peered up at Grace. "I couldn't have done as well without her." Polly was speechless.

"What the fuck are you doing taking her, Tommy? There's kin here should be first choice," Arthur growled.

"Well, Arthur, when last you were doing business in the bakery you got yourself in a right fucking mess with a goat, of all fucking things. Can you see anyone else 'ere who's better to take than this lady right next to me? Eh?" Arthur scowled, chagrined. "So, she came." Tommy stated. "Anyway, know the alliance with the Jews is solid… I'm working on the licences… Now, tasks: Finn, find John and bring the useless bastard back to work. Then come to the office, I've a couple of errands for you to run."

"Tommy." Finn pulled his cap on with purpose.

"It's good to see you, Finn." Grace smiled at him. "You've really grown." Finn grinned and tried to hide flushed cheeks. He tugged his peak at her and, head held high, stepped into the sunshine. "I've some things to do, too. I'll fetch my bag and be off as well," she said.

Tommy stroked her cheek. "You'll come by later?"

"Yes." She pulled his hand away, embarrassed. "I'll be a few hours, is all." She stepped towards the stairs. He reached for her hand. "See you." She nodded slightly, held his eyes with a look that slurred his pulse and went upstairs. "Where was I?" He snapped back. "Arthur take the car. Go to the Italians' pubs and their bars. Make sure it's understood Sabini's suffered a major defeat. Make it clear the Peaky Blinders and the Jews, we stand in solidarity."

"Yes, sir!" Arthur cracked his knuckles and swigged the last of his whisky. "What about the Black Country Boys? We need them on-side."

"I'll deal with them. Once you're done, go to The Garrison and be sure the bar's well-stocked. You'll have help later."

"You've got it. She'll be purrin' like an engine tonight." Arthur's moustache bristled.

"Pol, come with me. Esme, prepare the shop; John won't be long. Lovelock, Scud-boat and the twins are due any moment. You won't be on your own." Tommy walked towards the front room. "See you later, Ada." Ada looked about as the room lurched into motion.

"I'll give you a lift?" Arthur offered.

"Thanks."

* * *

Polly and Tommy faced each other across the cold, blackleaded fireplace.

"Polly. If you want someone to blame 'ere, blame yourself." Tommy raised his brows a touch for emphasis. "You remember?" He scoffed a little. "Oh, you remember. You had this in your hands those years back and to your credit, Pol, you told me God's honest truth then. Well, the truth now is nothing's changed. Never did. You know that, too: the past, it is the present."

"Thomas." Polly's gaze was steady. "You can't trust that woman."

"She had a job to do, Pol. She saved my life."

"And put you in mortal danger. Danny's life is on her head. Freddie's scars from the beatings in prison that troubled him nights." Polly's voice quavered. "May God rest their souls. Some things don't warrant forgiveness."

"Some things can't be helped. If Grace is at fault, so are all of us."

"This family is better-off without her."

"Polly, I know you're angry. You've been through some things in the last couple of days I wouldn't wish on anyone. But this, here, right now, has nothing to do with that… I need someone else. Blood is too thick here." His face was open, hiding nothing. Polly looked at him, eyes lit with curiosity at the new creature in front of her.

"You are a fool, Thomas." She said helplessly. "You spend your life in your head. Provide for us all using your wits. But you can't see past a pretty face to the rot behind."

"She isn't like that. I know her."

"Then perhaps you would be so good as to tell me just what it is that's brought you back together now, when two days ago I would have sworn blind you were seeing a horse-trainer." Polly shrewdly pinpointed the hole.

"Grace came to find me at the Derby. She told me she loved me." He shrugged.

"Yes, but why then? Why the Derby?" She knew she was on to something. "You're easy found elsewhere another time."

"Well," he scratched at the back of his head, "there was some other news she was keen to pass on." His eyes sidled to the carpet.

"I think I can have a guess at what that might have been." Polly pursed her lips. "Tommy how can you be so stupid?!" She held her arms up in exasperation.

"Does it matter?" Grace chipped in, she'd gathered her things and returned downstairs to say goodbye.

"How long have you been there?"

"Long enough. The truth is whatever's brought us together is not relevant. Yes, I'm pregnant. But Polly tell me, do you think I needed to be?"

"Maybe you did, yes. Did Thomas tell you about the telephone call he made that night?" Polly had an air of triumph as the smug, venomous question hung.

"What call?"

"I heard, from Mr Campbell no less, that he received a call from my nephew telling him of your whereabouts and that you were with him." Polly was stony-faced.

"Is that true, Tommy? You called Campbell to tell him you were going to sleep with me?"

Hesitant, he peered at her with clear concern.

"Well, I have never felt so cheap. Is that what I am? A trophy?" Grace spoke softly, disconcertingly still.

"Grace, no. No." He reached for her arm.

She shrugged him off. "Time for that walk; I've things to attend to and the fresh air will do me good. I'll leave this conversation between the two of you." She hastened out.

"Grace!" His call fell dead as the door banged shut and he fixed Polly with an angry glare. "That was low, Pol." Tommy wrenched the door open and burst on to the street. Grace was nowhere to be seen.

Grace knew number ten wasn't locked during the day; each tenant had a room key. She nipped into the hall and silently crouched, breathing in and out rhythmically, listening closely. His boots clipped past in one direction, then the other. After a couple of minutes, through the wall, she heard them cross the threshold. A loud thud. "Fuck!" Raised voices were heard easily through the thin plaster.

"It's for the best, Thomas. I'm protecting this family. Like you're s'posed to be doing."

"Polly, listen to me. I don't know why I made that call… All right. I do. I wanted to rub his face in it. It may be an odd way of showing things, but I never thought a woman like her would love a man like me. That got the better of me. I shouldn't have done it. But understand, Pol, I want to spend what time I've got with Grace. Child, or no child. Married, or not. I don't care. If she will be mine, I am 'ers. It don't matter how the past looks."

There was something in his manner that finally softened his aunt. "You know, I haven't seen you smile these last few years… Didn't see it much before she came either, truth be told. You have your mother's smile. It's big, it makes you look like a boy again…" Polly trailed off a little into reminiscence. "I'll speak to Grace tonight. If she comes."

Tommy clenched his fists and thick veins writhed from knuckles to wrist. He looked his aunt in the eye, almost pleading. "It stops with her." Polly smoothed his hair. "Go to the office. I'm sure it will be fine."

* * *

Grace exhaled, dropped her head to bent knees. She couldn't believe he had played her in a move like that. She knew she deserved it, but would never have expected it of him. It was troubling. The night returned to her mind unbidden. It often had. She could remember everything: cold hostility; standing proudly beside him in a welcome charade; the warming effervescence of Champagne; febrile kisses; gasping for air as her pulse raced; every touch betraying her love, wanting to betray it; feeling his pour into her like molten lead; an orgasm like death that stilled her for minutes. His hand had raked her hair and stayed there as his head rested lightly at her neck. He murmured her name in a voice that vibrated down her spine and she breathed his in response. Then it was over. She twitched her sleeve into place as he suggested an affair. Making love, time stood still and everything else was destroyed; blasted to nothingness. Then reality encroached and the truth was he hadn't followed her to make them together a part of that, wasn't offering to then either. She realised that night that she couldn't, wouldn't meet him part-way; it would be more catastrophic than never seeing him again. But squatting in a murky Watery Lane hallway reeking of rising damp she saw his impression was opposite - that no matter how destructive an affair might have been, it was more than nothing. But he made that call… She slumped and let her head fall against the wall. She had to think.

* * *

 _ST: Profanity Prayers - Beck_

Peals broke through solid oak as Michael unlocked the offices and swung the door in, sweeping aside a sheaf of correspondence. Sidestepping the mail, he strode to the 'phone as the final ring lingered. He drummed his fingers, "Fucking Lizzie. Where is she?" He hung his coat on the rack and pulled up his sleeves, collected the mail and dumped it on the desk. He extracted the letters intended for him; bills, orders, nothing of note. Placing them to one side, he took a rather fine silver case from his waistcoat pocket, opened it to reveal a gold-plated interior and perfectly aligned cigarettes. Tidy fingers withdrew one, tapped it on his desk; he took a perfunctory inhale and began working through columns of neat red figures.

* * *

John sat on his heels skimming pieces of gravel across the canal, shooting at them with his revolver before they sank. Occasionally he took a swig from a battered half-cased flask. Sunshine bounced off the water to the brick warehouse behind. Caught in the heat trap he peeled off his jacket, swaying a little as he threw it away as the gravel rolled under his boots like marbles. He fell backward, grazing his hands. "Ah, fuck!"

Titters like birdsong came from behind. "What the fuck?!" He spun to the offenders: a couple of kids, his Daniel and Lizzie's Ben and Doris. "You little bastards!" He leapt up and raised a hand to give Dan a solid clip behind the ear. His son flinched.

"You all right, darlin'?" Lizzie walked up and put her hand on the child's back. "John! What are you doing here?"

"I've just done with a family meeting. I thought you'd be at the office."

"I took a day… And it's a hot one, today. The kids were going to cool off here and I don't trust them to keep themselves livin'." She pinched Doris' cheek firmly to make the point and looked at them with disdain then peered at John, vivid scratches still visible across her face. "Anything come up?"

"Lizzie." John gently held her forearm. "You're all right?"

"I'm all right." She said haughtily. "I've seen worse." She pushed his hand away.

They sat next to each other on a pile of heavy sleepers as the children mucked about, swooshing water over each other and chucking rocks for the biggest splash. After a few minutes, John said: "He's getting married. Tommy. Tommy's getting married."

Lizzie withdrew a squashed cigarette from somewhere around her person, swiped the match to light it and flicked it into the water where it fizzed and floated away. "Who to?"

"Name's Grace. She was here a few years back. Worked at The Garrison."

"I don't remember anyone."

"Blonde. Pretty."

"Oh, her? What happened to her?" Lizzie feigned casual interest, speaking through a lungful of smoke.

"Well, Tommy wouldn't want yer to know this, but she pulled the wool over his eyes, no mistake. She had to leave in a hurry; Polly's very dark on her."

"How'd she do that? Fool Tommy?"

"She pretended to be falling for 'im. But she was a nark. A filthy fucking copper's canary." John squinted into the sunshine. "But he's asked her to marry him anyway." He turned to Lizzie. "I walked out."

"John, your brother." Lizzie shook her head. "He only thinks of himself and his fucking plans. It's good you walked away." Lizzie rocked herself a little, back-forward-back. "Shit." She muttered, chucking the butt aside. "Oi! You kids! Get away from that!" She yelled, then turned to John. "The edges on that metal would cut you to look at them."

"You're good with the kids, Lizzie."

"It's easy to come to harm around these parts. If I want those kids to grow up at all they need an eye on them. I do my best."

"And your best Liz, is very good." He rubbed her back. A shadow appeared over their shoulders.

"John, I've been looking fucking everywhere. You're to come back to the shop with me and help Esme and Aunt Polly." Finn panted. "Please come, John. You know what Tommy's like. You've made your point."

John scowled. "Ah all right. I'd best be off." He stood and gathered up his jacket. "Good to see you, Liz."

"You too, John. I promise Dan'll get home in one piece."

"Cheers." John walked a few steps then spun his head to say: "Drinks tonight at The Garrison. On the Peaky Blinders. Don't be late!"

"Bye, John." Lizzie turned back to the shimmering cut.

* * *

 _ST: Profanity Prayers, Beck_

Tommy strode into his office, sat behind the desk and heaved a sigh. He lit a cigarette and took the time to finish it, musing as the smoke drifted through shafted daylight. He stubbed it out, sparked another and balanced it in the ashtray. With reluctance he picked up the telephone's earpiece from the cradle.

"Thomas Shelby for Mrs Carleton, please."

"I'm afraid she's not available Mr Shelby, sir." The maid's accent was Lancastrian.

"Can I enquire when she might be?"

"She's gone on a drive, Mr Shelby. I can't vouch for when she'll be back. She took a picnic for the road so not, I expect, before the evening, sir."

"Thank you. I'll try later." He rung off.

* * *

Michael always had his door open. He had nothing to hide as he worked and often found observing the interactions outside to be useful. He heard quick, light footsteps approach and Finn entered his line of vision. Tommy must have been keeping an eye out because he met him immediately and ushered him just inside his office. "Finn! Just the man I wanted to see." Tommy tousled the top of his brother's head. Finn flinched and ducked away, combing his hair back into place with his fingers and a scowl. "You find John?"

"Yeah, he's back. That Esme's giving him a hell of a time. What d'you want done, Tommy?"

"A few things today, lad. Start at the Cunard offices in town…" They walked further into the room and Michael missed any more until Finn was leaving. "…you sure you're all right with Stechford?" Finn nodded. "Good lad. We'll see you tonight." Tommy paused a second for effect. "Grace is looking forward to seeing yer."

Finn nodded and resisted the impulse to smile as he left. Heading west under the broiling midday sun he reflected: as a boy, he'd seen Grace with his brother a lot, chatting unguarded when Finn didn't immediately count to notice. When she served them all at the bar, she had made sure to always silently put a glug of cordial at the bottom of his mug after once noticing his nose wrinkle in disgust at the bitter, sour beer. He was closer to Tommy those days, and he found him easier to be around when Grace was near. Finn remembered the night she whisked Tommy away when the police came, and how cheerful Tommy had been the next morning - Finn chuckled as his teenage mind turned to what had obviously happened. But, he thought to himself, Grace was all right, and Tommy being happy was good for all of them. He started bouncing on the balls of his feet as he walked.

...

Grace shoved the door and stepped into the reception area. She absorbed the space: dark wooden panelling, frosted glass, heavy furniture. It reminded her of America. Out of place in Digbeth but somehow oddly fitting. Seeing nobody at the desk she walked through.

"Michael, isn't it?"

"Yes." Michael nodded to Grace across his desk. She looked different.

She entered his open office, hand outstretched. "We should meet properly. I'm Grace." Michael took her hand and squeezed it at arms length. "Michael Gray. I do the accounts."

"Polly's son."

"Yes." He wasn't quite terse, but his reservation and calculating gaze were a little unnerving.

"You've my old job! I'm sure you do better with it than I did." She smiled through her teeth.

"I wouldn't know."

"Tommy about?"

"Just through there."

"Thanks."

* * *

 _ST: Revelator - Gillian Welch_

"Grace?" The voice emerged through the doors.

"Tommy."

"Come in." A hand at her back urged her between heavy double-doors into a club-like office barely touched by the outside through slatted blinds; slanted light made it feel darker than the windowless reception area. There were photographs of horses, toffs in top hats, Tommy with them, out of place in his newsboy; a huge sideboard surmounted by a tantalus and another crystal decanter on a low table also full of amber liquid; leather armchairs; a globe; a telephone. The air hung rich and sweet with intermingling smells of tobacco, wood, whiskey, leather, oranges ostentatiously arranged. Tommy's lavender, something adopted since she left no doubt under the influence of his new gentlemen companions, added a herbal note to the atmosphere.

"So, this is where you spend your days?" Grace paused to drop her bag and bundle, pull gloves from sticky hands.

"Mostly." He took her in. "You changed."

Grace looked down at her outfit. A plum-coloured skirt in thick cotton, broderie anglaise blouse and worn navy cardigan. "I went to the pawnbroker. That dress had to go anyway…" She pulled a loose thread at her elbow. "I need to fit in in New York."

"Which dress?"

"The peacock. If you can't remember it's in their window now, under the golden balls. It displays well."

They sat and faced one another across the desk, warily gauging the mood. Tommy spoke first. "Grace, I'm sorry. He'd was pushing me and pushing me and then you were there. He was still in love with you, you know. Kept your photograph in his wallet… We know his landlady." He offered by way of explanation.

"Tommy I thought we were meeting as friends. And you used me. Worse than that, you used that I love you to win some kind of game. Worse still, the last time I saw him he drew a gun on me…" She pressed a hand to her twisting stomach. "I wonder was a part of you perhaps hoping he'd do that again? Or have me arrested? As retribution…"

Tommy's vision swam; he reeled. "He was never going to do that! The house is always guarded… I called him at the Birmingham station."

"Well, that's something." She calmed a little. "Tommy, I don't think I can find a reasonable explanation for it. Not really. But for other reasons, you deserve to be forgiven." She traversed the desk and ran her hand through his hair, bringing it to rest on his shoulder which she rubbed ruminatively, gently with her palm. He dropped his head against her breast, closing his eyes in relief. She cradled it with both hands and angled his face up to look at her. "I don't deserve you," she said, "but then, you didn't deserve me either."

A wry smile toyed with the corners of his mouth. "If you say so."

"You're a good man, Thomas Shelby." Her fingers ran to the back of his skull as she knelt to his level."I don't think you realise that."

"I think it's questionable."

"No." She kissed him softly and let their foreheads linger together. The light in her eyes made him believe it; he pulled her onto his knee and hugged her. Grace pressed her lips to his still-ruddy temple then picked up the burning cigarette from the ashtray; she took a small puff and proffered it. With the arm around her waist he accepted, sucked in a deep drag and squashed the tip out as he pushed the smoke into the hazy room.

"What have you been doing?" She leaned forward to examine the open ledger on the desk.

"Just incomings and outgoings for the exports. I'm a bit distracted today though." He kissed her nose. "For reasons you know…" He lit another cigarette, inhaled, placed it carefully down. "And others you maybe don't quite. See, I need those licences." He coughed. "The deal with Alfie is handy, but it will only last if we can help him in the long run. The plans that were in place can't go ahead." He took another deep drag and looked guiltily up. She took the cigarette from his fingers, smoking calmly as she waited for him to go on. "I have a bit of a strategy, but the people to make it work are required."

"I know some people." She casually exhaled a stream of smoke. "They're not in the racing world, but they have influence in their way… I'm owed favours…" She pressed out the cigarette and placed her hands either side of his torso, rucking up the shirt to find skin. "You created something of an incident at the Derby; government's distracted." She kissed his neck, making his arms wind around her back instinctively, and quietly stated: "I could help."

"You'd help me? With that?" His eyes registered surprise. "It'll do your reputation nothing good."

"They're legal pitches we're talking about Tommy. Anyway, it's part of my trade." She grinned. "My existence let alone my reputation is always in question."

He inhaled her kiss like spirit. "You feel real to me." He tarried his thumb around her dimple, pressed it softly. "Thank you."

"I'll work over there?" She pointed to the coffee table.

"Yes." He reluctantly extricated his hands from beneath her blouse as she stood. She took a directory from the shelf and began to go through it methodically, legs folded to the side on the dense carpet.

Tommy crossed the room. "Can I offer you a whiskey?" he offered with mock courtesy.

"Thank you." She accepted with an outstretched hand, eyes fixed on the page as she noted details deftly in small, sloping script.

Tommy took his glass back to the desk, sat and lit another cigarette, considering her with gleaming eyes and an almost-smile. He turned back to the ledger and settled in for a quiet afternoon.


End file.
